


Bad Decision

by hetaliareference (arrowiskawaii)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 13:50:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11186442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arrowiskawaii/pseuds/hetaliareference
Summary: Norway gets really drunk one night and Denmark, shockingly sober, takes care of him.





	Bad Decision

**Author's Note:**

> I THINK this was another kink meme fill? Oh well, here it is!

Denmark should probably know better by now, but Norway isn't one to be trusted with hard liquor. Make all the jokes you like about Denmark’s own fondness for alcohol, but there are times when the ever responsible Norway has a bad day, or a bad _week_ , and you'll be hard-pressed to convince him that he shouldn't just drink himself into a stupor.

“Slow down already,” Denmark warns. It's after dinner now, and Norway isn't making himself a mixed drink so much as he's adding a splash of fruit juice to his vodka. “What’re you trying to do exactly, make yourself pass out?”

“M’not. I just need to be more drunk.”

“You’re plenty drunk.”

“I'm still conscious, aren't I?”

Denmark clucks his tongue at him.

"What's got you so stressed out? You don't want to try talking about it?"

"Nope."

Denmark watches Norway knock back half his glass with an audible gulp. He decides that tonight might be a lost cause.

“Have it your way, then. Just remember it’s not my job to clean up after you if you throw up.”

“M'not gonna throw up.”

“I’m serious—y'know how no one’s actually proven our kind can’t die of alcohol poisoning? Let’s try not to find out the answer tonight, yeah?”

“Oh shut up,” Norway says, though he smiles faintly. “Let me make my bad decisions in peace.”

"Whatever. I'm gonna go get ready for bed."

Denmark comes back downstairs in his pajamas a little later and can't help but feel a little relieved to find Norway still alive. He might be collapsed on the sofa, but he _is_ still breathing—or, well, maybe not for long if he keeps lying face down on the cushions like that.

“Norway,” Denmark calls. “Y'okay?”

Norway lifts up his head to look at him, which seems to take him a great deal of effort.

“I drank t'much.”

“Oh, you think so?” Denmark plucks the empty bottle out of Norway's hand— _what a mess_ , he thinks—and when he goes to the kitchen to toss it in with the rest of the recyclables, he finds two more bottles already in the bin.

"Jesus Christ, Nor, what did you _do_?"

Norway doesn't exactly have a good answer waiting for him when Denmark stomps back into the living room.

“Don't yell at me, the room’s already tiltin’.”

"I'll yell at you all I want!" Denmark balls his fists at his sides as he watches Norway drop his head again and go back to smothering himself with the pillow. "That was all the liquor we had in the house, Nor! And you call _me_  an alcoholic!”

“You _are_ an alc'holic!”

“At least I don't decide to start drinking vodka like water instead of dealing with my problems!”

Norway throws a pillow at Denmark's head but misses spectacularly, hitting the lamp instead.

“And now you’re attacking my lamp!” Denmark normally doesn't worry about drunken shenanigans, but that's because Drunk Denmark doesn't worry about much of anything. Sober Denmark, on the other hand, is the type to become overly concerned by the possibility of broken lamps and tragic pillow drownings. “Are you going to be okay? Do you need me to carry you to bed?”

Norway huffs and throws his legs halfway off the sofa, managing to make himself look like an uncoordinated jellyfish in the process.

“What are you doing?”

“Crap. I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t make my legs go.”

Norway makes another fruitless effort to stand up but he only manages to slide down further onto the floor instead. Now he looks like he’s doing a self-invented yoga pose.

“Wow,” Denmark says, almost in awe. “You're fucked up.”

Norway gazes up at him with a face that is the portrait of a sad, sad drunk. Even his hairpin is starting to fall out.

“M'sorry I drank everything.”

“You look plenty sorry,” Denmark admits. He sighs and points down the hall. “Toilet?”

* * *

Denmark can't say he's ever had the privilege of standing outside the bathroom and listening to someone else throwing up. Usually he's the one doing the hurling, so it's like a whole new experience for him when the roles are reversed. And what a learning opportunity it is—he's been alive for hundreds of years and only just now can Denmark appreciate just how unpleasant it is for either person. The sound of it alone, he thinks, is enough to make him feel bad for all the poor souls he’s gone drinking with in the past.

“This is surreal,” Denmark says out loud. “When was the last time it was this way around? You this hammered and me sober, I mean?”

The door opens and a very pale Norway appears behind it, clutching the door frame.

“Not often,” he grumbles.

“Hi Nor, I figured you’d be done soon.” Denmark takes Norway by the arms to steady him. “Sounded a bit less chunky towards the end.”

“What’d'you got in there that smells so bad?"

"Probably the stuff I clean the toilet with.” Denmark pokes his head into the bathroom for a second but ends up reeling back. "Oh boy, smells like toxic chemicals n’ vomit now."

"Ugh." Norway falls forward into Denmark's chest. "Please help me upstairs."

"So now you're willing to accept help, huh? Do you promise not to throw up once you're in bed?”

“Can’t promise,” Norway says, miserably.

“Well, I have faith in you. Tally ho!” Denmark grabs him by the waist and, mostly for his own amusement, tosses Norway over his shoulder like he used to do when they were younger. Denmark doesn’t really consider until afterwards that subjecting an extremely inebriated person to sudden movements is a bad idea.

“Oh _God,_ ” says Norway. He nearly strangles Denmark in an attempt to regain his incredibly confused sense of balance. “What the hell'r'you—”

“Urgk,” Denmark answers. “Stop trying to kill me!”

Denmark tries to bring Norway down gently but a gagging noise by his ear convinces him to abort the operation. Plan B is to drop Norway like a sack of potatoes and haul him back over to the toilet as speedily as he can—it almost works, except they don't actually make it all the way there and have to make do with the sink instead.

“Crap," says Denmark, running a hand through his hair. "Please don't puke _too_ much, the sink's not ideal for that.”

Fortunately there doesn’t seem to be much left in Norway’s stomach. He finishes off with a few dry heaves and turns on the faucet.

“I can't believe—” Norway turns on Denmark as fast as he dares. “Why did you do that, you stupid—” He pauses, the mental strain is evident on his face. “ _You're stupid!_ ”

It's a fair accusation, Denmark has to admit. It's fairer then that one time Denmark got blackout drunk and accused Norway of hiding his socks from him, anyway.

“I'm sorry, Nor. I obviously wasn’t thinking about what would happen.”

“S'okay.” Norway gives Denmark an odd look, either because the word ‘sorry’ just came out of Denmark’s mouth or because he’s just very drunk and bewildered in general. Then he turns back to the sink to rinse his mouth with water, which he spits back out before adding, “prob'ly just gonna throw up again anyway.”

“Well try not to for a second, I still want to bring you to bed.”

This time Denmark puts out his arm first to give Norway proper warning before lifting him up. Norway wisely presses his face to Denmark’s shoulder to avoid looking at the ground and Denmark, also wisely, double checks to make sure his cargo is secured. He readjusts his grip a few times during their trip up to the second floor.

"Now this brings back memories,” Denmark says, feeling suddenly nostalgic. “You remember when I used to do this? You'd always fall asleep in front of the fire and I’d end up carrying you up to bed. 'Course, that was before you got fat and hard to lift.”

“I didn’ get—”

“Sweden never got that treatment,” Denmark adds. “He kicked me one too many times. Fin and Ice were good kids though—unlike you. You were probably the biggest troublemaker out of all of us when we were little. And yet here I am, all these years later, feeling sorry for you and carrying you to bed like a little princess!”

“M'notta princess either,” Norway grumbles.

“The bedroom at last!” Denmark softly kicks open the door and goes to deposit Norway on the bed—Norway doesn’t express an ounce of gratitude, naturally, but he does tilt sideways and drop onto the pillows like he’s made of cement.

“Hey, where'd your hairpin go?”

Norway lifts his arm to feel for it in his hair but comes up empty-handed.

“I dunno.”

“You don’t think you flushed it did you?”

“I dunno.” Norway rolls over drowsily and closes his eyes. “Th'lights off downstairs?”

“Yeah?”

“Locked everything?”

“Yeah, earlier I did.”

“Stove’s off?”

“ _Yes._ ” Denmark aggressively tucks Norway in just to shut him up more than anything—god, Demark doesn’t think he’s ever worried about this kind of stuff while drunk. Or sober, for that matter. “Get some sleep now, 'kay? I’ll drag the trashcan over in case you gotta throw up some more later and bring you some aspirin—”

Norway reaches out to take Denmark's hand. The expression on his face, when Denmark looks up, would imply the action had been entirely impulsive.

“What's this?” Denmark feels a huge grin coming on. “A gesture of appreciation? Or _love?_ "

Norway drops Denmark's hand.

“No.”

“You don’t have to be shy.” Denmark brings himself about an inch from Norway's face because he knows he hates that. “Go on, tell me just how much you appreciate me.”

“Shut. Up.”

Denmark sighs. He takes a step back. Then he launches himself into the air, throwing himself over Norway and towards the other side of the mattress, coming down with a crash that shakes the bed frame like an earthquake.

“ _Denmark,_ ” Norway groans.

“I’ll let it slide this time,” says Denmark, prodding Norway in the chest. “But if you ever drink like that again I swear I’m gonna be a whole lot more obnoxious about it. I only want to see you drink like a responsible alcoholic from now on, got it?”

Norway tries to knock his head into him, but he doesn't apply quite enough force and more or less ends up with his head lying on Denmark’s shoulder instead. Then he snuggles up to him, apparently deciding to cut his losses.

“Responsible alcoholic,” Norway repeats. “Sounds like an oxymoron.”

"True enough,” admits Denmark. “Oh, and another thing—I know you only ever pull this shit when you're upset about something, so now would be a good time to actually tell me what happened."

"No," Norway replies. "Too sleepy."

"God dammit," Denmark laughs. "What about the moral of the story? Weren't you were supposed to learn your lesson or something?"

Norway makes a sleepy, mumbly noise.

"Tomorrow."

"Oh, alright. You can learn your lesson _tomorrow_.”

What follows is a minute of silence before Denmark decides to lean in to kiss him, and, not exactly wishing to learn the taste of stomach acid and booze in Norway’s mouth, he pecks him innocently on the forehead instead. Judging by Norway's lack of response, he's fallen asleep already.

"That fast, huh? Sure you're not faking?"

No, apparently not—Norway curls in on himself but sleeps on, undisturbed.

“You forgot to say thank you," Denmark whispers. "You know, for always being so caring yet also smart and incredibly handsome?'”

Norway still doesn't stir, but Denmark decides it's just as well. He gets up and tells himself he ought to start looking for that hairpin.


End file.
